


The Marksman

by Misaya



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassin!Eames, Assassins & Hitmen, Bottom Arthur, Developing Relationship, Dirty Thoughts, Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Espionage, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, In Vino Veritas, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Era, Oblivious Arthur, Orgasm Delay, Public Hand Jobs, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Tattoos, Top Eames, Voyeurism, lawyer!arthur, this is just kind of porn with a side of plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misaya/pseuds/Misaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is ordered to dispose of Arthur due to some sensitive information that Arthur has recently gained access to that could put Eames's employers in jeopardy. He polishes his sniper rifle, looks through the scope into Arthur's bedroom window, and stays the trigger. </p><p>"Good Lord, Mr. Darling," he muttered, loosening his collar just a tad. "What a bloody gorgeous sight you are."</p><p>Lawyer/Assassin AU, eventual Arthur/Eames</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Now, Time For Something Completely Different

The manila folder that the man slid across the table to Eames was thick, crammed to bursting with files and photographs and documents, and Eames took his time reviewing them, arranging them on the table neatly so that he could see the relevant information on every paper. The mark's name was Arthur Darling, and he couldn't help but smile at the surname emblazoned across every document. Granted, the organisation's information wasn't quite as good as it could have been, and the "Darling" could have been a substitute for an actual last name that they didn't have access to, but even Eames knew it couldn't be terribly hard to open a mark's letterbox and examine their credit card statements or whatnot. 

And if this were the case, well, he'd have to say that it really was quite a fitting adjective. This particular Arthur was a perfectly lovely specimen of humanity who apparently enjoyed wearing well-tailored suits and vests and had a penchant for making sure his shirtsleeves were rolled up and creased neatly. He had an innocent brown curl that tumbled wayward across his forehead that no amount of gel could manage to keep restrained, and, all in all, he looked like a very unassuming, very unthreatening, very handsome person. Perfectly darling, as it were. Eames was of the opinion that the man was most likely a banker. Or a lawyer. Something of the sort. Perhaps a postman? He'd just started to envision Arthur in a well-fitted polo and matching cap, a messenger bag haphazardly slung over his shoulder, tossing out the daily newspaper, when the man across from him began to speak. 

"As you may know, we have reason to believe that this...Mr. Darling has some information regarding the Tennyson operative," the man said, his fingers steepled in front of him. "We would like you to get it back, using whatever means possible. From his file, you may see that he isn't a particularly important person in the grand scale of things, just some junior partner at a law firm or something of the sort, so it most likely wouldn't be too horrible if you somehow...disposed of him, as it were. Owing to the sensitive nature of the information, we would like it if you completed this task as soon as possible, Mr. Eames."   


"Right. Consider it done," Eames agreed, carefully taking note of an address on one of the documents before sliding the papers back into the manila folder and standing up. 

* * *

Arthur thought that quite possibly he would expire in his swivel-back chair at Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd, Esq. Though having been assured that being made a junior partner in the law firm was a good thing, and that his salary would double, triple, possibly even quadruple from his days as a paralegal, he was inclined to believe that perhaps it wasn't worth it. His desk at present was a swamp of papers and legal textbooks that had seen better days, and had probably seen better owners as well (Arthur's cup of coffee enjoyed falling over and splashing black across the pages, in particular Roe v. Wade, the text for that particular entry had been blotted dry several hundred times over). Arthur often got there at seven in the morning and ended up leaving at approximately seven-thirty at night, always begging off Ariadne's attempts to take him out somewhere nice, and he usually headed home and dialed in an order for a curry. 

It was a boring job, a boring life, and Arthur thought that perhaps the condoms he kept in his nightstand drawer were probably growing cobwebs by now. It was a rather sorry state of affairs. 

In addition, there had recently been some fuss over a rather large and intensive set of contracts, written up by some M. Tennyson and which Arthur had had the misfortune of taking responsibility of. The thick file had been passed around the office at least three times before Arthur found it stuffed in his file cabinet, and when he turned around, the offending stack of papers in his hand, everyone had begged off and named some obscure case that they had to research for something; at this point, Andrew Kettering, one of the senior partners in the firm, had informed him that every other junior partner and every other paralegal was, in fact, busy with researching some obscure case or another, and that Arthur just had the luck to have finished tidying up his previous engagements. Arthur had opened his mouth to protest, but Kettering's fierce look had cowed him into submission, and as a result, he spent most of his time at work poring over the intensive legalese and trying to make sense of all of it. 

In fact, today had been particularly bad. 

He'd slammed his hand in his file cabinet at least three times, Ariadne had spent almost the entire day yapping about her new boyfriend (who, from the pictures, looked quite the decent fellow), and Roe v. Wade had seen the back of yet another black coffee. He'd found himself falling asleep at his desk trying to work through page 3 of the first contract, something involving subsidies and joint ventures and parent companies. When he finally walked through the door of his flat, loosening his tie and tossing it over the coat rack, he sank into his favourite armchair by the television, dialed his favourite curry shop, and found to his dismay that said place had just run out of curry, and would he be so kind as to try again tomorrow? 

He found himself burying his face in his hands, tugging at his hair and wanting to cry. What kind of curry shop ran out of curry? But since he  _was_ Arthur Darling the Fourth, he did not cry. He had not wept since he was five (unless you counted that one incident when he was 12 and had nearly been trampled by a horse, or the time when he was 17 and had a sudden revelation while eating a sandwich that he actually was not physically attracted to girls). 

And, of course, being Arthur Darling the Fourth, he took the situation into his own hands, and boiled water for an old Cup of Noodles he found in the back of his rather empty pantry. He wondered bleakly if the spiders spinning cobwebs around his nightstand condoms were possibly having feasts in his kitchen cupboards as well, because surely he'd had more food than this. His lackluster search of the fridge also turned up nothing spectacular: an onion, which was turning green on one side, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and a loaf of bread that Arthur felt sure had probably been around since the start of the year. 

After dinner, Arthur padded off to his bathroom for a shower, during which he rested his forehead against the salmon pink tiles and wondered what he was doing with his life. 

He lay down in bed afterwards, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets against his bare skin, and stared up at the popcorn ceiling of his flat and contemplated the rusty grey water stain in the shape of California that had started spreading on the ceiling by the balcony window. The moon was shining all silvery into his bedroom, and it fell over him in a shaft of light, turning his skin pearly. 

It was not even 11 PM yet, according to the red digital numbers on the clock on Arthur's nightstand, and he shrugged, supposing it was as good a time as any, before reaching down and wrapping a hand around himself. 

* * *

Eames, in the meantime, had taken to lying on his stomach on the rooftop of the building opposite Arthur's. He hummed to himself as he peered through his rifle scope. The night vision adapter turned everything an eerie, neon shade of green, and Eames pulled away for a moment, rubbing at his eyes and taking another glance down at the photograph he'd taken out of the folder. 

But my God, if he wasn't a gorgeous man, Eames thought to himself for the umpteenth time that night. He just wanted to dress him up in his fancy suits and press him against his apartment walls and probably try and nail him through the door, that would be excellent, and it was a shame that Mr. Darling here was wrapped up in all this Tennyson flimflammery. 

He turned back to his rifle scope, peered through it at the windows in the building across the street. On the third floor, a young woman with her hair wrapped up in a towel was writing at her desk, pausing every few moments to pick up her pages and hold them up, as if checking to make sure the sentences looked all right from all angles. On the fourth floor a mother stood by the window, bouncing her baby in her arms and rubbing its back. Eames quickly scanned the other windows, most of which were dark and had curtains or blinds drawn, flicking past a seventh floor window in which a young man was lying down in bed and quite frankly having a rather energetic go at it - 

Wait. 

Eames flicked his scope back to said window, squinted through the sight past the vision of the man's hand bobbing up and down, examined his face thoughtfully. He pulled away, looked down at the photograph, looked into the scope again. 

"My, my, Mr. Darling," Eames murmured to himself, making a mental note of the window's relative position. "Someone looks like they're having a lovely time..." 

He held his fire, reasoning with himself that, if Mr. Darling were one to subscribe to the religious belief that one went to meet some higher being after death looking exactly as you had when you left life, it might be rather embarrassing to appear before said higher being with one's genitalia in hand. It was a bit low, really, to off someone while they were having a wank. And, if Eames were being truthful to himself, Arthur was quite a sight to watch. 

He watched Arthur's hand stroking, pulling upwards, a little flick of the wrist to rub the flat of his palm over the head; watched the way Arthur bit at his bottom lip and clutched at the now-wrinkled linens with his other hand. Arthur stopped abruptly, and Eames let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, wondering why he'd paused. Arthur sat up for a moment, manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position, and Eames had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle his gasp (and, if he were being well and truly honest with himself, a moan) as he watched through the scope as Arthur pressed two spit slick fingers into himself, his back twisting and his other arm trembling as it braced itself against the headboard. 

"Good Lord, Mr. Darling," Eames muttered, loosening his collar just a tad. "What a bloody gorgeous sight you are." 

He watched as Arthur's pace picked up, as his hips began to judder forward erratically, and almost bit through his lip at the way Arthur's back arched into a deep bow as he came, leaving faint, barely there smudges on the headboard. Arthur slumped into the pillows for a few moments, and Eames wondered what it would be like to lick the sweat away from his skin, to worry pebbled nipples between his teeth, to nibble at skin drawn tight across the narrow hipbones that fit so deliciously in those tailored slacks Arthur was seen wearing in almost all of the pictures that he currently was in possession of - 

Arthur rolled over to grab a tissue and wipe off his headboard, and Eames's gaze quickly focused on a small patch of skin on Arthur's lower back, where something was written in dark calligraphy that he couldn't quite read from this distance. Arthur crumpled the tissue onto the nightstand, heaved the quilt around himself, and curled up to face the window. With the moonlight dancing over Arthur's skin and turning him radiant, Eames wondered if it was blasphemy to say that he looked like Jesus. A particularly handsome Jesus. Surely Eames had earned himself a one-way ticket to Hell for that specific thought. 

He sighed, watching as that same errant curl slowly crept its way across Arthur's forehead, and firmly palmed the bulge in the crotch of his pants. 

"Mr. Darling," he murmured to himself as he slowly, gently set the rifle down and looked across to the building opposite, to the window where Arthur was, "what a mess we've gotten ourselves into." 

 


	2. You Mustn't Be Afraid to Dream a Little Bigger, Darling

As if things couldn't get any worse, a week later on Friday, Arthur found himself saddled with a new intern/trainee/aspiring lawyer. His already swamped desk was cut in half to make room for said intern/trainee/aspiring lawyer, large stacks of papers pushed across to fit in only fifty percent of the space they were accustomed to. He watched in dismay as Roe v. Wade took another beating, and almost downright pouted when the new intern came in with a box of belongings, which he proceeded to litter around the now-pristine right half of Arthur's desk. The newcomer didn't even have that many deskly possessions, and Arthur was just about to push just a single stack of papers over the line, but Kettering shot him a glare from across the room so fierce that Arthur hastily pulled the stack of papers back to his side of the desk. 

"Jolly good to meet you," the new intern said, sticking out a hand that Arthur felt sure might be better suited to chopping logs or handling construction materials than sitting behind a desk and reviewing torts. The hand was connected to a forearm that sported a simple, understated Rolex, and the forearm disappeared into a light-blue paisley-patterned dress shirt. Arthur suppressed a shudder. He despised paisley, considered it right up there with the seven deadly sins. Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, wear paisley. He felt sure it was written in the Bible somewhere. Probably in some obscure book of the Old Testament that nobody actually got around to reading. 

Trying to ignore the pattern of the shirt (and failing miserably), Arthur took a glance at the intern's face, plush lips under a perfectly respectable nose under blue eyes that looked like they could be the colour of some ocean next to some far-off country that Arthur had never even thought of. The man was just a tad taller than him, and his hair was styled in a perfectly acceptable manner for the workplace, and under ordinary circumstances Arthur would have even gone so far as to think him quite handsome, but as it were, it  _was_ the workplace and the man was wearing paisley. 

"I've heard so much about you," the man said, reaching out and taking Arthur's hand, pumping it vigorously up and down. Arthur tried to ignore the warmth of the man's skin. 

"You have?" he asked, preening a bit. The days when someone said they'd heard a lot about him had become few and far between. If one even went so far as to mention Arthur Darling the Fourth, the group of friends one was with would look at you blankly and ask you if the Duchess had had another baby, or if one was referring to that one disgraced earl from York, who'd been caught quite a few times at a particular brothel in South Kensington (this was actually correct, but Arthur preferred to distance himself from the actions of his father, and would claim that he was from another branch of the Darling family). 

"Oh, loads," the intern agreed, smiling at Arthur. "All As in your A-levels, perfect LSAT score, studied at The University of Cambridge Faculty of Law. Youngest junior partner at Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd." 

"Quite right," Arthur agreed, brightening and returning the intern's smile. "But enough about me. You are?" 

"I'm Thomas Eames," the intern replied. It was a perfectly lovely name, full and round in one's mouth. "I've just come back to the UK from travelling abroad, taking a few gap years after university to explore the world before I settle down, you know. Just flew back in from Taiwan the other week, in fact." 

"Really?" Arthur asked. He'd never even thought of going to Taiwan, or, for that matter, another country. There was just something about spending ages inside a flying death compartment surrounded by strangers on all sides that didn't really appeal to him. Taiwan, though. It sounded exotic, lovely, exciting and new. "Did you have a good time there?" 

"Had a fantastic time," Eames agreed. "Lovely place. Although I've got a British palate through and through, the food there didn't quite agree with me. First thing I did at the airport, in fact, was dial in an order for curry." 

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. "I know what you mean," he said, and was about to continue on a laudation of his favourite curry place when he caught Kettering's eye again. The senior partner scowled fiercely at him, indicated the vast piles of papers consuming Arthur's desk, and Arthur sighed before sitting down in his swivel-back chair again and patting the one next to him that Ariadne had dragged over, indicating that Eames should sit down. He ignored Ariadne waggling her eyebrows at him from behind Eames's back and mouthing things silently at him ("Tea's a real cheese!" was what he saw, and he shot back a confused look. Ariadne had been trying to communicate to Arthur that the new intern was a real piece*), and turned to Eames, who was watching him intently. 

"Well, to be honest, there's not too much for you to do here, but I suppose since you're supposed to be shadowing me or whatnot, I'm obliged to show you what I do here." 

Eames nodded eagerly, and Arthur spent the next eight hours explaining to him the obscure research involved in practicing corporate and patent law, and tried to ignore the way Eames's lovely mouth quirked up at the corners every time he spilled something over Roe v. Wade. 

* * *

"Bleeding hell," Eames burst out once the door had closed firmly behind Kettering and the office was dark and quiet, save for their desk. "Do you do this every day?"

Arthur looked up from where he was trying to translate page 5 of the Tennyson Contract (page 5 out of almost 500; he had a feeling he'd probably be wheeled into a retirement home clutching page 350). "Do what?" he asked, dumbfounded. "I just got this contract a short while ago. Obviously I've done work on other contracts, as evidenced by these." He indicated the stacks of paper, which, against all logic, seemed to have doubled in size since that morning. 

Eames swept his arm around the office. "I mean, do you always stay this late? Good Christ, go home any later and the police will be stopping you asking you why you're out past curfew. You've got that sort of face, you know. So bloody youthful and innocent." 

Arthur tried hard not to blush, tried to focus on the way Eames's paisley shirt was absolutely horrendous, but the soft lighting of their desk turned even that most dreaded of fabrics semi-acceptable. 

"So I take it you don't have anyone waiting at home for you?" Eames continued, eyeing Arthur from the corner of his eye and smirking at the rosy flush that crept across the planes of Arthur's cheekbones. "I know if I had a dish like you, I'd be terrified about you coming home so late at night." 

Arthur almost swooned. It had been ages since he'd been referred to like that (if he was being well and truly honest with him, nobody had ever called him that). 

He cleared his throat. "Erm, no," he answered, wondering what it might be like to walk in the door of his apartment and find Eames sitting in his favourite armchair by the television, dialing up for a double order of curry. Well, in Arthur's impromptu fantasy, Eames was sans paisley, and that just led to a whole other fantasy about what he might look like shirtless, probably gloriously tanned and muscled and maybe even tattooed, and that in turn led to more fantasies about how inked skin would taste, if Eames was the type to let him leave bites littered all over his body - 

"So I take it you don't have any other obligations tonight?" Eames asked, cutting into Arthur's reverie, and Arthur fanned at himself hurriedly to try and clear away the blush that he felt sure could stop traffic with its brightness. "Because I'd really like to take you out for a drink or two." 

"I'm not sure this is entirely appropriate," Arthur began, but Eames just rolled his eyes. 

"I'll even change into another shirt to make the experience pleasanter for you," he said, "I've seen you throwing grimaces at the shirt all day," and at that point, Arthur couldn't help but agree. 

* * *

Arthur couldn't remember the last time he'd been even remotely intoxicated. And he was currently pleasantly buzzed. 

"You alright there?" Eames asked as he laid a heavy hand on Arthur's lower back, sending tingles up Arthur's spine. "Bit of a lightweight, are you? The pretty ones always are."

Arthur giggled a bit, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stumbled up the steps to his apartment building. "I'm good," he agreed. "I feel great. The greatesht in a long time." 

Eames smiled, the corners of his mouth quirking up, and Arthur almost fell off the landing as he leaned forward to attempt to find out what those plush lips tasted like. 

"Easy there, pet," Eames soothed, opening the door for Arthur. "There's plenty of time for that sort of thing." 

"D'you think we could have shex?" Arthur asked rather bluntly, turning to look up at him. At the two hims. But that just meant double the excitement, didn't it? At least that's how it always worked out in some of the more racy movies. 

Eames looked highly amused as he herded Arthur into the lift. He pinned Arthur against the elevator wall, and Arthur thought that quite possibly this would be the best way to die, being smothered against the wall of a lift by Mr. Thomas Eames in a striped shirt, whose mouth was barely five centimeters away from Arthur's and who smelt like the world's best aftershave, spicy and smoky and clean. Eames bent down just a tad, his mouth just barely brushing against Arthur's, and Arthur tried to press forward, but Eames pulled back with a little smile. 

"I'd feel horrible if I took advantage of you," Eames admitted, tugging lightly at the wayward curl snaking across Arthur's forehead. "And unfortunately it appears I'm a bit too sloshed to make good, coherent judgments. 

Arthur pouted, scuffing at the floor of the lift with one polished dress shoe. "But I _want_ you to take advantage of me," he muttered, and the instant the lift doors popped open with a bing, he dragged Eames out of the lift with breakneck pace.

* * *

"Jesus, you're in luck I carry rubbers like a self-respecting gentleman," Eames muttered to Arthur, who was smiling giddily up at him amidst his wrinkled linens. "The ones in your nightstand look like they're ancient enough to be put in a museum." After a moment, Eames squinted at Arthur. "Are you planning to take off your clothes? Or ought I to do that for you?" 

"I can," Arthur said, hiccupping and giggling. He sat up, looked down at himself with a frown, before beginning to struggle with the buttons. He looked up at Eames haplessly. "How do buttonsh work?" 

"Oh, sod the buttons," Eames muttered, bending down and pressing his mouth flush against Arthur's, his hands ripping open Arthur's shirt and sending black and beige buttons pinging all over the floor. "I'll get you another shirt, promise," he mumbled breathlessly, nipping at Arthur's lower lip and letting his hands roam across Arthur's skin. It was smooth, almost silky, and Eames pulled back, bending down to litter Arthur's collarbones with tiny sucks and nips that would stain raspberry in the morning. 

Arthur's hands tangled themselves in Eames's hair, tugging the strands into disarray, as Eames kissed his way down Arthur's chest, sucking marks into the milky skin - Arthur's skin tasted fresh, soapy, clean, exactly what he'd expected -, taking a dusky nipple into his mouth and worrying at the pebbled skin lightly with his teeth. Arthur choked back a series of gasps, bringing one hand up to cover his mouth while the other gripped strands of Eames's dark hair between his fingers. Eames was currently nibbling kisses into the skin pulled taut over Arthur's hipbones, and Arthur tugged on his handful of hair, trying to get Eames to move down and a bit to the right, his hips lifting and pressing into his jaw. 

"Impatient, aren't you?" Eames asked, his eyes twinkling as he wrapped a hand around Arthur and tugged a slow stroke upwards, rubbing at the weeping head with the flat of his palm; Arthur almost bit through his lip as he watched Eames settle his hand around the base of his cock and lower his mouth onto him, his cheeks hollowing and snugging plush lips around him while his tongue did something positively wicked and horrifyingly pleasing, tracing letters into the head, dipping lightly into the slit, teeth dragging with just the slightest hint of pressure against the skin. 

Eames pulled off him after a few minutes with an obscene pop, his lips glistening in the moonlight, and Arthur swallowed roughly, dragging Eames back up to his level to press their mouths together and tasting himself in the crevices of his mouth, a bit salty and bitter. 

"I'd like you to turn over, love," Eames said, his voice husky, and a shiver went up Arthur's spine at the commanding tone in his voice. "It'll be easier and more comfortable for you." 

Arthur turned over obligingly, propping himself up on his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder at Eames. Eames looked positively predatory, gazing hungrily at Arthur's bare skin, and Arthur almost had time to feel self-conscious before Eames smoothed two large hands over Arthur's hips and there was the pop of a tube of lotion before two broad, slick fingers manoeuvred their way into him, curling and pressing and stroking around curiously. Arthur was about to tell him that it was slightly up and to the right, before Eames found it all on his own, the tip of his middle finger pressing right into it on his next pass. Arthur shuddered, his back dipping, pressing back onto the thick fingers breaching him. Eames drew in a sharp breath, watching Arthur writhe on his hand, and palmed at his cock with the other hand, trying to ignore the pool of heat that was starting to flood the pit of his stomach with need. 

"God," Arthur muttered, his voice a half-sob, half-moan, "can you just get in me? I'm stretched enough, I swear to God, just, just  _please."_

"No, darling," Eames soothed, "just a bit more, I don't want to hurt you." 

Arthur could have screamed in frustration as Eames paused to slick up a third finger and carefully work it into him, spreading them gloriously wide and gently pumping them in and out, stroking over his prostate with every thrust. The pleasure was racing up Arthur's spine, and he could see himself leaking all over the sheets, aching and breathless and needy, and he took a deep breath and all of a sudden it was too much, it was far too much, and he was going to come - 

A hand clamped around the base of his erection, and he squirmed in displeasure, trying to pull away from the constriction. 

"Sorry, love," Eames's voice from behind him was raspy. "On the up side, I think you're stretched enough." 

Arthur opened his mouth, wanted to inform Eames that he'd been well and truly ready two fingers ago, but his voice was lost in a breathless keen as Eames slotted himself neatly into him. There was a pleasurable burn, heat tingling all through Arthur's insides, and he whimpered as Eames expertly flicked his hips, grinding into Arthur's prostate. 

"Oh, God, oh, God,  _oh God,"_ Arthur chanted, sobbing and writhing under Eames's ministrations, his skin tingling and aching wherever he touched, broad hands smoothing themselves over his spine, slick mouth leaving bites all over his skin, a rough thumb rubbing over his lower back, tracing the inked letters there. 

"'Veritas?'" Eames asked, his amused tone just the slightest bit breathless, the only indication Arthur had that their activities were affecting him at all. "You got a tramp stamp, and it's 'Veritas'?" 

Eames draped his broad form over Arthur's slighter one, leaning forward to nibble at the tip of Arthur's right ear, his right hand reaching around to wrap around Arthur's cock. "On a quest for the truth, are you?" he murmured in between strokes, his thumb collecting the pearls of moisture that gathered at the tip. 

"S-something like that," Arthur moaned, "God, don't stop, I'm going to come, please don't stop this time -" 

"Well," Eames murmured, "if you really want to know, I'm a trained assassin, and I think I might just be in love with you." 

Arthur sobbed, his spine going rigid before his arms gave out and he collapsed into the sheets with a riot of motion, his hips shuddering back and forth, spilling all over the cotton and Eames's fingers, clenching tight and pulsing around him.

"Christ," Eames groaned, his hips snapping forwards once, twice, thrice as he came, Arthur's velvet inner walls milking him through his orgasm. He slumped over Arthur, pressing a series of soft kisses in the hollow of Arthur's shoulder blades before pulling out of Arthur with a soft sigh. 

"Do you want a shower?" he asked Arthur. When no response came, he took a closer look at Arthur's face to find that he'd already fallen asleep, his hair curling over his forehead, soft and silky. 

He smiled quietly, and went to Arthur's bathroom to find a washcloth to wipe him down with. 

* * *

Arthur woke up the next morning, his temples pounding and the sheets crusty beneath him. He frowned as he sat up, the room wobbling slightly around him, wincing at the unprecedented ache in his hips. He stood up carefully, padded towards his bathroom, drew back from the mirror with a horrified gasp as he took in the sight of dozens of small, irregular red marks littering his neck and chest. 

He thought about calling a doctor, surely this sort of thing wasn't normal, when he heard the door to his flat open. 

Tugging on a pair of boxers and grabbing an old cricket bat from his closet that had seen better days, he cautiously approached the front of his flat. He held his breath as he braced himself against the wall, leaping out from around the corner and nearly tripping over his own feet. 

"Alright there?" Eames asked, looking up at him from where he was laying out the contents of a brown paper shopping bag. Fresh melon and a tub of yoghurt were already sitting on the table, and he was currently in the process of slicing some cinnamon bread. "You've got absolutely nothing to eat in this place, did you know that?" 

Arthur approached him cautiously, still firmly gripping the cricket bat. Eames just rolled his eyes, smirking, and Arthur suddenly had a vivid memory of those plush lips snugging around him, sucking, dragging, and he clapped a hand to his head, which had started aching worse than ever all of a sudden as the memories of last night came flooding back. 

He dropped the cricket bat unceremoniously on the floor, making a mad dash for the bathroom, where he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and heaved up the contents of his stomach. A few moments later, when he was still draped over the white porcelain bowl, he felt fingers carding through his hair and rubbing at his back. 

"Better to get it all out before breakfast, I completely agree," Eames said, soothing. "Seems like fresh fruit costs more than petrol these days." 

"Did you mean it?" Arthur asked, carefully prying his fingers from their death grip on the porcelain, standing up unsteadily and wobbling over to the sink to brush his teeth. 

"Mean what?" Eames inquired, leaning against the counter to watch Arthur. 

Arthur spit the toothpaste foam into the sink. "You said you might be in love with me," he said, quite seriously, although Eames found it terribly hard not to laugh at him, what with his mouth covered in mint green foam and all. 

"Yes," Eames agreed, wondering if Arthur remembered the first part of that statement. "I did mean that." 

"You know nothing about me," Arthur protested. "You don't know what kinds of music I like, or what my favourite type of food is, or whether or not I enjoy gambling." 

"Well, Mr. Darling," Eames said, smiling, "you're a fan of Bastille, your favourite food is curry, and...well, I don't actually know whether or not you enjoy gambling." At Arthur's openmouthed stare, he hastened to explain. "I went through your records this morning, and you've got quite a lot of curry takeout menus in your kitchen drawer. I was looking for a bottle opener so I could open the orange juice." 

Arthur just stared at him, opening and closing his mouth, rather like a fish with a rather foamy mouth. 

"I know we've gone about this a bit backwards, but if that's all you're worried about, we've plenty of time for dates and picnics in the park and trips to the beach, and that way we can get to know each other better." 

"I...I'm not quite sure," Arthur hedged, dropping his gaze and staring into the foamy sink. A warm hand settled on his lower back, rubbing at his tattoo. 

"Well, you can think about it. I'm certainly not going anywhere." The hand left, and Arthur almost opened his mouth to ask for him to put it back, it felt quite good, but Eames was already at the bathroom door. At the door, he turned, leaning against the frame and catching Arthur's eye in the mirror. 

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling," he said with a slight smile. "Surely there's got to be something better than working contract law morning to night, then coming home to takeout curry. Just think about it, that's all I'm asking." 

* * *

Over breakfast, Arthur contemplated his cinnamon toast and wondered when the last time he'd had something other than oatmeal for breakfast was. He couldn't remember the last time in recent history. Eames was resting his head on one of his hands and absentmindedly dragging a toothpick through some thick yellow egg yolk, drawing swirls and stars and curves. 

Arthur cleared his throat, and Eames's attention immediately snapped to him. Arthur couldn't remember the last time in recent history he'd drawn someone's attention so quickly. 

"Fine," he said. "I will agree to try and get to know you better."

Eames's smile brightened, and he opened his mouth to say something, when Arthur interrupted him through a mouthful of cinnamon toast. 

"But on one condition." 

"Yes?" Eames asked, looking positively ecstatic. 

"That you never, ever wear paisley again." 

He held out his hand across the table. Eames reached out instantly, grabbed his hand, and dragged him nearly halfway across the table into a kiss that had crumbs of toast spilling everywhere. 

 

 

 

 


	3. If We're Going to Perform "X," Then We Need "Y"

That weekend was quite possibly the best weekend Arthur had had since he was thirteen and had spent a holiday in Paris with his father and his father's mistresses. That particular holiday, they had brought him to all manner of Parisian fashion shops and tailors, and he'd come away with a whole new appreciation for cut suits that made his gangly, adolescent body look quite nice. He'd even kept the first suit he'd ever owned, tucked deep in his closet, the elbows patched and the seams stretched from where he'd once attempted to wear it as a tribute to the good old days. 

Eames did not bring him to any fashion shops or to any tailors, and, in fact, one might consider the weekend they spent together to be rather reminiscent of a very typical weekend that a boyfriend and a girlfriend quite comfortable with each other might spend together. Or a boyfriend and a boyfriend, as the case might have been. However, Arthur was still rather unsure where he stood on the whole boyfriend thing; did one go about calling another man his boyfriend if one also happened to be almost thirty? Perhaps there was another term. One's gentleman? That sounded vaguely racy, and Arthur dashed that idea on the spot. 

And Eames was not a gentleman. As far as Arthur was concerned, the man was  _depraved._

And yes, this was coming from Arthur Darling the Fourth, who had not quite come to terms with his sexual orientation until about six years ago when a friend of his from university had conned him into going to Las Vegas for a weekend, during which Arthur had been the beneficiary of a Chippendales' show ticket and had been coerced into attending. (No actual coercion had been involved, not after Arthur had been informed what a Chippendales show actually was.) This was coming from Arthur Darling the Fourth, who hadn't had proper sex until about three years ago, with a rather nice banker from down the street, with whom he parted on quite amiable terms and still saw from time to time. 

So Arthur really had no right to use the word 'depraved,' but he felt sure that if he looked in a dictionary he'd find Eames smiling up at him from the onionskin pages. Which wasn't half a bad thought, really. 

"Has anyone ever told you you've just got the loveliest body?" Eames asked him on Saturday afternoon, on the bloody Tube no less, riding back from Piccadilly Circus. He was currently pinned up against Arthur, just about draped over him like a coat on a hanger, and Arthur would have told him to bugger off about four stops ago, but as it was, the train carriages were all hideously crowded, schoolchidren and their families out to buy new school clothes and pencil bags, and tourists from all over the world with great strapping cameras snapping pictures out of the windows at every stop. And, furthermore, Eames's hand was currently pressed into a rather compromising position in Arthur's trousers, doing positively sinful things and sending shivers racing up Arthur's spine. 

Arthur vaguely wondered if the security cameras on the Underground were catching all this on tape and if said tape would be posted on YouTube. He'd be a porn star before the third quarter, and thought that perhaps it was the Darling curse come to bite him for scorning its existence all those years ago. The Darling family had perhaps an entire series of Wikipedia articles regarding them and their sexual mishaps (see: Arthur Darling the Third, Duke of York, frequenter of brothels in South Kensington; see: Arthur Darling the Second, Duke of York, who was rumoured to have at least nineteen illegitimate children spread throughout North Ireland and Wales; see: Arthur Darling the First, Duke of York, who had been so proliferate in his sexual endeavours that legend said that if you had blue eyes and a curl that always stubbornly fell across your forehead no matter what kinds of hair product you used, you had at least a 75% chance of being related in some form to him). The first three Arthur Darlings would probably have scoffed and told him that the Darling curse was actually a blessing, but Arthur was a rather big fan of not being an inadvertent porn star. 

Eames had other plans, however. 

His hand was currently caressing Arthur's cock, trailing calloused fingertips along the velvet skin, worrying at the head with the pad of his thumb, and Arthur couldn't help but bite at his lower lip to try and stifle a moan as Eames wrapped his hand around him and stroked from base to tip. 

"Are you insane?" he hissed over his shoulder, once he felt he had sufficient breath. "There are  _children_ on this carriage!" 

Eames smirked, and Arthur would have made a rather sarcastic retort had Eames not slid his other hand around Arthur's, which was firmly wrapped around a metal bar next to the door of the carriage. 

"I suppose you'll just have to be rather quiet, then, love," he murmured, nibbling at the tip of Arthur's ear, which was a bright red. "Be a sweet and untuck your shirt. You're not supposed to tuck in plaid shirts, anyway." 

Arthur grumbled something, but obligingly untucked his red flannel shirt so that its tails draped over his thighs and hid Eames's hand from view. 

Eames hummed to himself as he resumed his stroking, and Arthur closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the dark glass of the carriage door, trying not to rock his hips into the touch, trying not to draw attention to them. He could hear it, the soft schlupping, slicking sound of skin against skin, and Eames did something particularly wondrous with his thumb that had Arthur hissing a breath of pleasure from between gritted teeth. Behind him, a gaggle of schoolgirls were talking about their new teacher and about his dashing good looks: "lovely chestnut hair, what hair products d'you think he uses? It looks so silky," "blueberry eyes," "and that mouth! I'm definitely not opposed to snogging  _him,"_ and couldn't help but think about Eames and his hair, and his eyes, and his mouth, and that only led to him thinking about Eames' chest, and then his abs, and then his cock - 

"What are you thinking about?" Eames whispered in his ear, and Arthur ground back against him, glad to feel that he wasn't the only one affected by this. "You've gone all quiet and red." 

"I'm -" Arthur's breath hitched as Eames twisted his wrist up around the head, and he couldn't help but whimper under his breath - "I'm thinking about you." 

"I would hope so." Eames sounded amused as he threaded his fingers through Arthur's on the metal support. "Now listen, if you want to come before we get off the carriage, you'd better help me out here. I'd prefer to make you a sobbing mess, but that takes time that I don't think we have before West Kensington. And you're not using your other hand." 

Arthur bit his lip, chewed for a moment, and chanced a glance around the carriage. Nobody was looking at them in particular, and from the reflection from the windows opposite, it would look as though they were just pressed together as an effort to conserve space and were in fact being rather good, upstanding citizens, instead of rather bad, depraved ones. He let his eyes fall closed as he worked his way underneath the fall of his shirt and underneath Eames's fingers, lacing them together as he took a grip of himself and stroked upwards. 

He barely noticed the carriages swinging to a stop, barely noticed the announcer's voice, cool and female and clinical, announcing that they were at Knightsbridge, that they were at South Kensington, that they were at Gloucester Road. He bit the inside of his cheek, Eames's fingers soothing and broad and secure around his own as they gripped and pumped and stroked in unison. His knuckles were white on the metal pole, and Eames's breath was soft and burning on his neck, and his hips were definitely rocking back and forth of their own accord now, there wasn't any way to pin it on the swaying of the carriage, and with every grind backwards he found himself pressing up against a hard something that had him shuddering and aching for something more. 

"Eames," he breathed, bright eyes darting up to meet dark, lust-blown ones, "I'm going to come." 

"Oh? Is that right?" Eames asked, smiling at him. Arthur nodded, his breath coming in shuddering puffs. "Why don't you, then? I've been waiting for it."

Arthur concentrated on the task at (in) hand, squinched his eyes closed, and Eames's thumb was rubbing at the head, collecting pearly precome and smearing it around the skin, and Arthur almost bit through his lip, he was definitely going to come, just one more stroke, just one more - 

"You have arrived at West Kensington," the woman announced, and Eames's hand quickly withdrew from Arthur's trousers, deftly buttoning and zipping him up and straightening out his plaid shirt. "Thank you for riding the London Underground." 

Arthur was sure he looked a sight as he exited the carriage, his hair mussed, his face flushed a bright scarlet, his mouth swollen from biting. His plaid shirt was still untucked, fluttering around his thighs, and for the first time he was grateful for it. 

* * *

They were barely in Arthur's flat before Eames pinned him against the door, one large hand pressing both of Arthur's wrists together above his head, the other diving underneath the red-and-white-checked flannel of Arthur's shirt and pressing against his skin. One of Eames's thighs was firmly placed between Arthur's, and Arthur couldn't help but grind his hips down against it, searching for some much needed friction. Eames pulled away from Arthur's mouth with a slick pop before bending down a bit to leave bites across Arthur's neck, and surely that whining, pleading voice wasn't Arthur's, it sounded absolutely nothing like him - 

"You're so greedy," Eames murmured, "but you do beg so nicely, I can hardly refuse." 

Before Arthur was sufficiently aware of what was going on, Eames had tugged their trousers off and currently had three fingers buried deep inside him, spreading him and stroking him into a frenzy. 

Arthur was quite sure that he and the banker from down the street had never, ever had sex against a door, or standing up for that matter, but Eames had slotted himself into Arthur without further fanfare, and at this point the bed just seemed far too far away, practically in another universe, and Arthur wrapped his legs around Eames's waist and buried his head in the crook of Eames's neck, breathing spicy aftershave and cologne and biting his lip and trying to ignore the way the underside of his cock slid against the fabric of Eames's shirt not paisley thank bloody Christ - 

"Oh," he whimpered, his voice a half sob, "I can't, Tom, please,  _please,"_ and Eames flicked his hips expertly, grinding himself directly into Arthur's prostate, and Arthur was sure the neighbours could probably hear him crying out from at least three flats down, before Eames placed a hand on the back of his neck and dragged him down so their faces were centimeters apart. 

"Perhaps next time I'll stuff you up before we get on the Tube, wouldn't that be something?" he murmured, and the thought of that had Arthur's heart skip at least three beats. "Having something pressing up into you and rubbing at your insides and no one would know, except me," he whispered, and Arthur huffed out a few breaths that sounded dangerously like whines. "Pressing your hips back into me and clutching at the metal pole and trying not to scream when she announces the West Kensington station and knowing you'll have to walk all the way back here to your flat before you can finally push your hands down your pants and rub -" Here, his hand wrapped itself around Arthur's cock, and Arthur tasted blood as he bit at the inside of his cheek - "and, oh, just come, Arthur, I'm not even wearing a great shirt, just come." 

Arthur didn't even have the breath to scream as he streaked white all across the front of their shirts. 


	4. Well, Can We Run With That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And yes, the banker IS the same one as the banker Arthur has had relations with. 
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter took so long to come about; I DID have an alternate version of this chapter written out on here, but that was before my laptop crashed and I lost the entire thing. As a result, this is not the chapter that was originally written for this story, but something rather close to it.

Sunday dawned bright and crisp and early, and, like every other Sunday in Arthur's very secular life, he woke up and cursed at the ringing of the chapel bells that came from the cathedral down the avenue from his flat. However, even Arthur would have to admit that this particular Sunday was specifically not every other Sunday in his very secular life, a fact that he thought to himself as he sat up and winced slightly at the not altogether unpleasant ache in his hips. He smiled a bit to himself as his fingers found the dip in the mattress where Eames had been sleeping during the night. It had been a sight that Arthur had not been privy to for a very long time, and he quite liked it. 

It was exciting, looking in the bathroom mirror and running tentative fingers over the still tender patches of strawberry skin that littered his neck. As he stepped into the shower, its glass still a bit wet from when Eames had had a bath earlier, even the salmon pink tiles, so ordinary, so commonplace took on a rosy appearance. The shower glass fogged up with the steam from the hot water, and Arthur smiled sillily, giddily, even, to himself as a series of designs that he certainly would never have drawn there (Arthur was far too unimaginative and too troubled about the possibility of soap scum and smudges on his shower glass) appeared before his eyes, a set of hearts and little smiley faces that had Arthur's heart fluttering in his chest.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to truly be infatuated with somebody. 

If you had asked Arthur what he thought about this feeling of absurd happiness, he would have told you it was like living in a children's animated feature. However, he would also blush a bit after a few moments' silence, and clarify that by telling you that of course his life wasn't exactly a children's animated feature, and was instead rated firmly within the boundaries of an NC-17 film. On any other person, Arthur's sense of happiness might have actually constituted a very good day, perhaps a day in which one had passed an exam with flying colours, but Arthur's life before Eames had been a tangle of ennui, an oppressive sort that would have driven even the most uneventful person to tears. 

He wrapped a towel around his hips and made his way to the kitchen/dining room, where he found a plate of assorted breakfast items set for one at his Formica dining table. There was a glass of orange juice still slightly sweating on the table, and, if the bottle in his recycling bin was to be trusted, was from the farmers' market down the street that Arthur had always been meaning to go to and never had quite found the time to. There was a post-it note propped up against the glass, and Arthur plucked it from the cup, holding it up to read it, squinting slightly; he hadn't yet put his contacts in and refused to surrender to the fact of middle age and buy reading glasses. 

"Dearest Arthur, I'm afraid I have a spot of business to attend to today. I hope this note finds you well. I may not be back for supper. Don't wait up. See you at work tomorrow. Kisses, Eames."

Arthur sat down to breakfast with a little smile on his face. The orange juice was more sour than he'd expected, but he still drank down the entire glass happily. 

* * *

Arthur was unusually productive that particular Sunday. 

He went and dropped off his dry cleaning at the corner shop, bought a cone of salt and vinegar chips, jogged home through Hyde Park (well, if he was being good and honest with himself, he was more running from the sheer fear of the large crows that terrorized small children and chip-bearing adults), and did a few loads of laundry, humming to himself as he folded the sheets and towels neatly. 

Every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a piece of glass, he smiled and touched fingertips to his neck, a slight reminder of the night before and hopefully a foreshadowing for many nights to come. 

And, though Arthur was not by any means a person who set an eye towards the future, he found himself praying to whatever higher being(s) there might be to let him have this one thing. 

* * *

"Mr. Eames," the shadowy figure in front of Eames stated, steepling long fingers in front of its face, "have you acquired the information?"

Eames cleared his throat, examining his fingernails and inadvertently thinking about them buried so far up Arthur's behind that the other man might be able to taste them if he tried hard enough. 

"I know the whereabouts of the Tennyson contract," Eames replied, eyeing the figure in front of him, who was now reclining back in its leather chair quite like a Bond villain. All that was missing was the white Angora cat and some ominous soundtrack. "I believe we can secure the data without any loss of life incurred."

"You are aware, are you not, Mr. Eames, that time is of the essence," the figure replied, and Eames could have sworn there was a slight hint of displeasure on the shadowy visage. "And this Mr. Darling has most likely read through the legalese into the ulterior motive of the documents. It might benefit us if you disposed of any other additional receptacles of the information, unless you can silence him through some other means."

Eames rolled his neck around, fixing out a few cricks that had worked their way into the muscles from Arthur's (too-firm) pillows. He thought about gagging Arthur, slipping one of the silk ties that seemed to be abundant in his closet into his mouth and tying it firmly behind his head, watching saliva soak through the thin material as the man whimpered underneath him as he skirted teasing fingers over pebbled nipples and quivering skin...

"Are you paying attention, Mr. Eames? I wish for you to silence him. Are we clear?" 

He snapped his thoughts back to the present. 

"Yes, yes, silence him some other way. I believe I can manage that. We're clear. Crystal." He was perfectly aware that he was stuttering and using choppy, short sentences, but the image of Arthur writhing around in his sheets was far too much for him to manage. 

"Excellent, Mr. Eames. See you next time." 

* * *

After being unceremoniously booted out of the vaguely ominous looking office complex that constituted his agency's headquarters, Eames tried desperately to shake the image he'd conjured of Arthur, and failed miserably. He wondered how opposed Arthur might be to the idea. Arthur was a relatively mild-mannered gentleman, and even the most mild mannered of gentlemen could turn out surprising things every now and then. In fact, Eames had known a banker quite like that, who also just happened to live down the same street as Arthur. He wondered vaguely if it were possible for him to sexually defile everybody in that particular row of houses. He knew for a fact that the banker had amassed a rather frighteningly large collection of sex toys since the last time he'd seen him a few months ago. 

And Eames was not one to frequent adult shops, but perhaps the banker in question would be willing to give him a good recommendation for any of those particular types of places. 

Eames had a little theory he would like to test out. 

 

 

 


	5. Excellent. But You Learned a Lot, Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been gone for so long!

Said banker, the one who happened to so conveniently live just down the street from Arthur, was named Mr. Zachary Button. Like Arthur, he favoured tailored suits that nipped in at the waist and complemented the span of his shoulders well; like Arthur, the banker had a rather interesting tattoo in a rather interesting part of his body (and said tattoo had been wrapped around his head more than a few times; that was all Eames would say on the subject); like Arthur, the banker was probably of the opinion that paperwork had a very special position in one's daily life, perhaps on the same level as going to chapel on Sundays (though Arthur was vehemently in favour of not attending mass).

Unlike Arthur Darling, however, the banker was not a minor lord that nobody had ever really heard of; Mr. Button's family members were also of the very buttoned-up type (during their short stint together, Eames had never failed to make a comment in that type of form at least thrice an outing), and so would never be caught dead having sexual scandals in public places. Eames doubted Mr. Button was no different. Furthermore, unlike Arthur Darling, Mr. Zachary Button had quite an extensive selection of sexually deviant toys and devices that Eames was sure would no doubt put even some of the finest adult shops to shame. 

It was quite understandable, really. Mr. Button had been to Japan. Multiple times. 

Eames had a distant memory of Zachary Button diving underneath his bed skirt, his pale legs wriggling like nematodes or particularly festive ghosts, before returning to Eames with an oddly shaped figure of silica and rubber. Eames tried to suppress a shudder as his sensory memory provided a few facts better left forgotten: that said device had a grouping of suckers on its underside, presumably to mimic a tentacle of some deep sea creature that was better off as calamari; that said device was a bright purple that positively glowed in the darkness (and Zachary had said something to the effect of that it was glow in the dark, had he not? Eames couldn't quite recall, he'd been in shock at the time); that said device was larger than Eames could wrap his hand around. And did Mr. Zachary Button wish to put this device in places that should go unnamed in polite society? You bet your buttons (there it was again) that he did. 

The Tentacle Incident, as Eames was fond of calling it in his memory, was probably the beginning of the end. They had ended their 'relationship' of sorts quite shortly after, and, as far as Eames knew, Mr. Zachary Button was currently enraptured with a new beau by the name of Mr. James O'Henry, a strapping Irishman who was also involved in the financial field, but worked in some field of litigation related to banking, which Eames personally thought was nothing short of depressing. 

But that was a story that was neither here nor there, and had quite nothing to do with the present matter at hand. 

Eames rapped smartly on the not-unfamiliar white wood of No. 40, rocking slightly on his heels and wondering if Mr. Zachary Button had changed drastically since the last time Eames had seen him. Eames was not in the habit of maintaining regular surveillance rounds on his past romantic conquests; it would be a waste of time and money that could be directed to other interests, and Eames definitely did not want to install some sort of video feed into Mr. Button's bedroom. The resulting tapes would most likely send him directly to the emergency room with horror stenciled directly into his retinas. He had zero interest in the activities of Mr. Button and Mr. O'Henry. 

He took a deep breath as his sharp ears caught the sound of footsteps hurrying towards the other side of the door, the faint call of a voice to just hold on, someone was coming to open the door right this very instant, great apologies for the wait and any inconvenience it might have caused. It was all very British. Very quaint. 

Mr. Zachary Button looked almost exactly as Eames remembered him, if perhaps with a few more gray hairs around his temples and a few more laugh lines bracketing the corners of his eyes and his mouth. He looked rather happy, and Eames congratulated Mr. O'Henry, wherever he was, for maintaining a set of sensibilities that was surely iron-clad and not squeamish, particularly in regards to the girth of the objects which Mr. Button wished to insert inside himself (and, granted, it was a free country, liberty and all that sort of stuff, and one could insert anything into any orifice of their own person of their choosing if they so desired, but Eames was of the opinion that there should at least be some sort of limit to this type of matter). 

"Thomas!" Mr. Button crowed in delight. "I never thought I would see you again! You left so abruptly after that last time!" 

Eames looked around to see if perhaps any nosy neighbours were peeking over the garden fences at this new development. None were in present sight, something for which Eames was terribly glad. It wouldn't do to have Arthur hearing about this sort of thing, depraved as it was. He was sure Arthur would not approve (but was also sure that Arthur would equally enjoy the fruits of the labors he was about to engage in). 

"Right, sorry about that," Eames apologised, stepping over the threshold somewhat reluctantly and toeing off his shoes by the door per Mr. Button's indications. A second set of black leather dress shoes was already set there, belonging, presumably to Mr. O'Henry, who at least had impeccable taste in footwear. He muttered something about work-related matters to Mr. Button's inquiries, before clasping his hands behind his back (at this point, Mr. Button had herded him into the living room and had pressed a glass of orange squash into his hand) and getting directly to the heart of the matter. 

"I'm here to see you about some of those devices you had the last time I was here," Eames said, clearing his throat and wondering if perhaps the orange squash was somehow making his mouth dryer. 

Mr. Button looked at him over the tops of his spectacles, which had the effect of making him look even more banker-ish than Eames had thought possible. His face broke out into a sly smirk. 

"You dog!" he proclaimed, launching himself at Eames and wrapping him in a hug. The orange squash would have gone spilling all over the white Persian rug at their feet had Eames not had the presence of mind to quickly set it down on a nearby end table. "Who's the lucky lady? Or gent, as it may be?" he asked, grinning up at Eames, and Eames sincerely hoped that Mr. O'Henry would not appear on the premises at any time soon; this was quite a compromising position. 

"Er, I don't believe you know him," Eames said, gently shrugging Mr. Button off. "But I do believe you know exactly what he needs to, ah, relax himself." 

A manic gleam appeared in Mr. Button's eyes, and Eames hastened to add, "But nothing too drastic, if you don't mind. I would rather not overwhelm him with some of the more adventurous things out there on the market these days." Mr. Button's face fell, and Eames almost felt bad. Almost. 

Mr. Button disappeared in the general direction of his bedroom before Eames could tell him that he was rather just looking for recommendations for adult stores, as opposed to wishing to view Mr. Button's collection (which had more likely than not expanded in the time elapsed between Eames's last visit and this one). He could hear rummaging around, the sliding open of drawers and closet doors, and busied himself by looking around the living room awkwardly. The Mr. O'Henry's taste in art was, unfortunately, not nearly the same caliber as his taste in shoes, and Eames caught at least three Gauguin reproductions that were most definitely forged, and not even good forgery, at that. He'd had some experience with replicating famous works of art and getting them past the authorities. In fact, Eames could credit at least two of the paintings hanging in the Louvre at the very moment as ones he had done; the originals were preserved under stringent conditions in a storage box somewhere in the Cayman Islands. 

He returned with a few models encased in black velvet show boxes, and Eames examined each one thoroughly, wondering what Arthur would look like when one of these beauties was pressed into him, rubbing up against his convulsing inner walls while he frowned at his paperwork (because obviously Eames would accept nothing less than having Arthur spend a day at work with one of these inside him) and trying not to make any noises when he shifted in his chair to ease a kink in his back. 

Eames was sure Arthur would look nothing short of delectable, and committed the address of the adult toy store Mr. Button rattled off to memory. 

* * *

Several quid later, Eames whistled cheerfully to himself, a nondescript black bag hanging from his wrist as he sped through the Underground. 

Thoughts about the Tennyson contract passed briefly through his mind at the Waterloo stop, but as the train sped towards West Kensington, Eames found that for once in his life he wasn't particularly interested in work. 

And, he thought to himself, taking another glance at the outline of the box through the black plastic, this might just be the perfect way to distract Arthur into "misplacing" the file. 

* * *

"That isn't a necklace, is it?" Arthur asked, staring down at the stainless steel beads Eames currently had twirled around his fingers. 

Eames hummed to himself, taking his time to savour the red bruises already fading away on Arthur's milky skin. "What makes you think that, darling?" he asked, reaching over nonchalantly for a bottle of lube that Arthur kept in his nightstand. It was all very domestic, really, and Eames found that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to like someone long enough to know what they kept in their nightstand drawer. In Arthur's case, it was a copy of  _Cell_  by Stephen King, a few clothespins, some assorted loose change, and a bottle of lube. Not uncommon, but when Eames had discovered it, Arthur had flushed the brightest of scarlets and quickly tried to make up some sort of fib about it being a new form of WD-40 or whatnot. 

Eames hadn't believed him for a second, least of all because the label on the bottle specified that it was to be used for 'Sexual Uses Only.' 

Although he wouldn't put it past Arthur to find the idea of WD-40 erotic. He would definitely not put it past this man. 

"Well, for one, necklaces of that type are usually pearls. Which aren't designed for men," Arthur said, his gaze focused firmly on the strand of beads Eames was currently painting generously with lube. "Second, you wouldn't put lubrication on a necklace." This was something Eames particularly adored about Arthur; he didn't use abbreviations for words, and would insist on calling a fridge a refrigerator, each and every time. "And third, you've got that look in your eye, you know the one where you look like you've got something particularly devious planned." 

"Oh?" Eames asked sweetly, closing the cap on the lube after making sure each bead was sufficiently coated. "It's nice to know you've been noticing." 

When he looked up, Arthur's face was aflame. "That's not what I meant," he muttered, but Eames distracted him with a small kiss to the inside of his knee, trailing his mouth up the creamy expanse of Arthur's inner thigh, pulling off with soft, sucking pops that left little red circles in his wake. He wrapped the hand that wasn't currently occupied with the beads around Arthur's cock, which was just starting to stiffen, before wrapping his mouth around the head and sucking gently. Arthur whimpered from above him, a sound that came out as both pleading and broken at the same time, and Eames smiled around the mouthful of flesh, opening his mouth wider and lowering his head more, until Arthur's cock was nestled snugly in his mouth and Arthur's hands were tangled in his hair, his hips quivering as he tried to restrain himself from arching up into the welcoming wetness. 

Eames pressed a finger, delicious, long, good, into Arthur, and Arthur tensed up, sobbing somewhere deep in his throat as Eames rubbed against the little lump nestled inside him. His hips started to buck of their own accord, and Arthur's nails were starting to hurt, scratching at his scalp, but Eames paid it no mind, waiting until Arthur went rigid and silent before he pulled off him with a wet sucking pop that had Arthur's hips arching up desperately, Arthur's hands, delirious with pleasure, weakly trying to push him back down. 

"I wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun," Eames explained to him, trying to resist the urge to snap a photo of Arthur, hair curled over his forehead, his lips bitten and swollen, cheeks flushed and eyebrows knotted as his orgasm faded away into the pit of his stomach. 

The beads at one end of the string were just a bit larger in diameter than one of Eames's fingers, so the first three went in easily, Arthur whimpering at the stretch and sudden close, gasping at the way the beads already inside him joggled against his prostate when a new one was pressed in. He began to have trouble at the sixth, however, and Eames gently rubbed at the furled skin, coaxing it to open. Arthur keened at the burning stretch, whining in his chest as the bead slid in. 

"No more," he gasped, "no more." 

Eames gently rubbed at his lower stomach with a soft smile. "Of course, darling," he murmured. "I'm so proud of you." 

Arthur hadn't heard that particular word used to describe someone's feelings about him in a long while, perhaps ever since he'd left university, and he looked up at Eames in surprise, temporarily forgetting the beads pressed up against his insides that shifted every time he so much as took a breath. "You are?" he asked, a bit unbelieving. 

"Of course I am," Eames said, meeting Arthur's gaze and smiling at him. "How could I not be? And, as I'm sure you know, good boys get rewards." The predatory look in his eye was back. "I want to hear you," he stated, and then Arthur felt a gentle tugging sensation against his rim as Eames wrapped his free hand around Arthur's cock, which hadn't softened in the slightest. 

Eames pumped up in rough, steady strokes, simultaneously pulling out the beads at an even rate, and Arthur's vision blanked white as he screamed when the final bead popped out of his body, his body convulsing underneath Eames as he painted his chest with white. 

* * *

Yes, Eames thought to himself, Arthur's head pillowed on his arm (his arm was falling asleep at quite a rapid rate, and Arthur's head was rather heavy, but he wasn't going to complain). 

It was indeed the perfect thing to distract Arthur into misplacing the file. 

 

 

 


	6. Who's Mr. Charles?

"Tom, I really, really don't think this is a good idea," Arthur protested in the shower early the following Monday morning. "We're going to be late for work, and I've got a rather important conference later today that I'm presenting for, so I've got to focus for that..."

"Yes, well, we're not going to be late for work if you would just relax," Eames grumbled, two fingers working at Arthur's insides, attempting to relax the tension inside him, the beads slippery in his other hand. "And I suppose you'll just have to concentrate extra hard for that conference, because I really, really would like to see you like this at work." He pressed a kiss to the back of Arthur's neck, grinning at the resulting shudder it sent down Arthur's spine, making the letters of his tattoo quiver in the dim fluorescent lights of Arthur's bathroom.

Arthur took the first few beads easily enough, and, because Eames had been feeling rather gracious waking up that morning, he had unlinked the last five beads of the string from their companions and stored them next to the Stephen King novel in Arthur's nightstand, figuring that there might one day be a time when Arthur would be able to take in all ten at once. And, if not, he rationalised, at least a man could dream. The fourth and fifth beads were, in Arthur's opinion, pressed in rather rudely, but even as he twisted his spine to glare at Eames over his shoulder in protest, one of the earlier beads jostled itself against his prostate and sent him quivering against the slick shower tiles with a soft whimpering sigh that wiped away all notions of aggravation.

As they clambered onto the Underground that particular Monday morning, Arthur couldn't help but remember an earlier Underground activity that he had been part of, and the beads certainly weren't helping him distract himself from the present situation, which involved Eames leering, rather obviously and depravedly (or so Arthur thought) through the reflection in the glass windows of the carriage. Despite Arthur's earlier vehement protests, he was wearing paisley once again, this time in some horrifying shade of blue and green that had the effect of making him look like what a peacock might look like if one were tripping on acid, but, unfortunately, not even that could distract Arthur from the lovely lines of his torso encased underneath the hideous fabric.

Stepping out of the Underground to head to the offices of Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd, Eames placed his hand on the small of Arthur's back, sending little prickles of sensation through his tattooed skin and shoving an unwarranted flush of heat through the pit of Arthur's stomach. He sighed in despair as they rode the lift up to the third floor, and he hoped, with an almost religious fervour, that Eames would be merciful and allow him to present at the afternoon conference with the senior partners and some other business associates without too much trouble.

* * *

It was only midmorning, just barely past the first sanctioned coffee/smoke break of the day, but Arthur already looked far beyond his normal professional state. Even Ariadne, who supposedly was extremely busy doing some work on a tricky, nastily complicated lawsuit involving medical emancipation of a particularly disgruntled teenager, had noticed, looking over the rim of her coffee cup at Arthur and quirking an eyebrow at him on more than one occasion.

She'd even gone so far as to throw little balls of wadded up scrap paper across to him when he wouldn't meet her eye, but, unfortunately for Arthur and much to Eames's amusement, her aim was not very good, and she managed to hit Arthur squarely in the forehead a few times. Arthur would glare at her and grumble like an irritated bear for a few moments before returning to doodling in the margins of page 9 of the Tennyson contract, which he still was no closer to comprehending - he now thought it quite possible he never would understand the particular workings of the document, nor its purpose.

Arthur stood up to go to the bathroom at around half past eleven, his hair tousled from where he'd run his hands through it in agonized frustration, sexual and otherwise. To his credit, Eames was rather impressed that Arthur had managed to last for so long, squirming and shifting about as he had been in his swivel-back chair. When Arthur had rounded the corner for the bathrooms and was out of sight, Eames, too, stood up to follow, feigning a look of concern for Ariadne's viewing.

"I think he's feeling a bit unwell," Eames explained in a low murmur as he passed Ariadne's desk. "I'm just going to see if he's alright," with a nod of his head towards the general vicinity of the restrooms. Ariadne returned his look of concern, and, now that the source of her attention was gone, she sighed and, with much reluctance, turned back to her paperwork.

* * *

Eames found Arthur the sole patron of the lavatory, cooped up in the stall farthest from the door, his shoes pointed away from the door of the stall, toes pointed towards each other, almost as if he were leaning on it. Eames, taking great care to make sure his own shoes didn't clack as he walked across the tiled floor of the bathroom. As he got closer to the stall Arthur was ensconced in, he started to hear soft whimpering gasps that, under normal circumstances, one might have thought were due to a particularly nasty, painful urinary tract infection. However, Eames was not currently operating under normal circumstances, and, in fact, almost never did, and, breaking all rules of bathroom etiquette, took a deep breath before knocking quite firmly on the stall door.

Arthur, from behind it, gasped, paused, his weeping cock still grasped loosely in hand, wondering what exactly the appropriate protocol for the situation was. Surely there were other stalls still open; he hadn't heard anyone else come into the bathroom since he'd entered the empty place. Perhaps he had a particularly tenacious coworker who refused to do his business in any stall but the one Arthur was currently occupying? Arthur certainly didn't want to impinge on anybody's personal preferences, but this seemed like a bit much.

"Arthur, please open the door." It was Eames's voice, low and husky, sending a tingle up Arthur's spine yet again, for the umpteenth time that day. "I feel a particular sort of obligation to you, since I've put you in this rather compromising situation. And I am your intern, after all, so I think it's under my job description to provide you with whichever services you may need."

Arthur grumbled something as he opened the stall door in a gap that Eames was just barely able to squeeze through. "I don't believe tasks related to sexual deviancy are included under your job description," he muttered as he closed the stall door behind Eames and fastened it again.

His indignation was quickly wiped away as Eames took him firmly in hand, thumb gently massaging over the flushed, leaking head while he gently pumped and stroked Arthur to completion. With every shift of his writhing hips, the beads inside him jostled against each other and bumped up against his prostate with an erratic rhythm that Arthur couldn't hope to predict. His breath started to catch roughly in his throat, spilling out with tiny, choked sobs that he tried to muffle into the collar of Eames's horrid paisley shirt, and he was a few seconds away from coming into the cup of Eames's hand when the restroom door opened and two sets of footsteps clicking across the tile floor.

Eames, in a moment of stunning clarity, quickly caught Arthur's mouth in a kiss and encouraged him to wrap his semi-clad legs up around Eames's waist. His free hand came to steady Arthur's bottom, pressing him up against the stall door, and, breaking the kiss, he whispered for Arthur to be quiet. Arthur, too far gone to do anything but agree to whatever Eames asked of him. In fact, even as he begged Eames silently for his release, his head hazy and dizzy with the pleasure burbling up, molten, in the pit of his belly, he thought he might even consider the paisley pattern of Eames's shirt quite nice to look at.

Eames pushed Arthur up against the stall door, his ears straining to hear for signs of detection as the footsteps clicked to the middle of the bathroom. There was the sound of zippers unzipping, being tugged down, then the sound of tinkling. All the while, Eames was pressing his tongue into the crevices of Arthur's mouth, swallowing his little whimpers, and listening to the conversation the two men had started to have.

"So, about Mr. Darling and the Tennyson contract..." one of the men said, in a deep voice that Eames recognised as Kettering's stern tone. Even at the sound of his name, Arthur was too engrossed with the way Eames's thumb was currently massaging the head of his cock, rubbing the sticky, clear liquid back into the skin, and he didn't pay one whit of attention to what was being said outside.

"Yes? What about it?" the other voice said, a voice yet unidentified to Eames.

"Mr. Charles, to be quite frank with you, I doubt Mr. Darling understands the enormity of the situation," Kettering said, clearing his throat. "It's an obscene amount of money being transferred, here, most, if not all of it, probably illegal. I've been considering transferring the project to one of the other, more senior, junior partners."

No, no, no, that certainly wouldn't do, Eames thought. He already had his hands full with Arthur, literally and figuratively, and he doubted he could take on another employee of Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd. And who was Mr. Charles? Eames had taken the time to do quick scans of everybody currently employed at Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd, Esq., and the surname 'Charles' had not appeared anywhere on the company roster. Perhaps he was another associate from a different legal firm who was helping HKM with the Tennyson contract? The document was certainly extensive enough to require assistance from multiple companies...

"It would be much, much easier if the file could be, misplaced, somehow," the other voice, Mr. Charles, presumably said. "I'm rather uncomfortable having a document sanctioning that much money in transfers and investments within the company. And we still get a cut, anyway, don't we? Just for handling it?"

"It would be rather fortunate if that were to happen," Kettering explained. "But alas, short of taking it off Mr. Darling's hands himself and rousing his rather irritatingly persistent curiosity and passion about his paperwork, I don't currently see a way for that to happen. As such, I think it may be prudent to plan for other situations."

An agreement, another sets of zips, footsteps clicking away and the running of faucets. Arthur was sobbing, desperate by now, his hips arching and writhing into Eames's grasp, tears standing out in the corner of his eyes and tremors running up his thighs. Eames wasn't sure how long Arthur was going to be able to hold out, and he prayed to whatever higher being(s) there were that Kettering and co. would just hurry up and leave.

The instant he heard the door swinging closed behind them, he tugged away from Arthur's mouth, which looked flushed, bitten and swollen, and allowed him to rut up into the cup of his hand. Arthur cried out, tossing his head back around the door of the stall, his sob echoing around the tile of the bathroom as he spilled himself across Eames's hand.

* * *

Arthur's face as he exited the bathroom was flushed and red, his hair curling over his forehead and far from the slicked-back style he usually wore to work. Ariadne looked at him with much concern as he plopped heavily back down at his desk again. Eames followed a bit afterwards, holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee from the coffeemaker down the hall and handing one to Arthur, who accepted it with a spaced-out look on his face.

Ariadne didn't know any better, and so she just assumed that Arthur really was feeling very unwell, given his present appearance and how long he had spent in the bathroom. During their stint in the bathroom, she had gone over to Mudd's office, had given him her best puppy-dog look, and had begged him to cut the conference short for today, as it appeared Arthur Darling, the presenter, had come down with a bout of something, quite possibly contagious. Mudd, who lived in deathly fear of germs, hastily agreed, and penciled in the conference for only a half hour, resolving to settle the other 2.5 hours at a later date.

* * *

When Arthur and Ariadne stood up, leather folders clutched firmly against their chests, to make their joint presentation to the senior partners and co. of Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd, Esq., Eames took this opportunity to root around the contents of Arthur's desk. He easily found the Tennyson contract. It had a drawer all to itself, and, even then, was still bulging out beyond the drawer's capacity.

As he hefted it in his hand, Eames thought about the discussion that had gone on between Kettering and an unknown in the restroom. As he flipped through pages and pages of meaningless legalese, giving himself quite a nasty papercut on his forefinger in the process, he privately thought that this document had caused quite a lot of trouble, for Mr. Darling as well as himself by proxy, and, because it was what he was really getting paid to do, he tied the bundle of papers up in a nice little parcel, left a Post-it note for Arthur propped neatly against his coffee mug, and headed out of the office to promptly 'misplace' it.

He supposed he would have to look up this so-called 'Mr. Charles' at a later date.


End file.
